


shining there

by TomBowline



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Ficlet, M/M, Pining, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:27:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28083924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TomBowline/pseuds/TomBowline
Summary: This is simple, in theory.A fill for theTerror_exe tweet"ficlet: 500 words of edward little and james fitzjames on HMS Terror, tags: praise kink". Also, an offering for my favorite cringe lieutenant's fail birthday.
Relationships: Commander James Fitzjames/Lt Edward Little
Comments: 5
Kudos: 31
Collections: @terror_exe Prompt Fills





	shining there

**Author's Note:**

> title from "love is simple" by kd lang

“Oh, that’s good. Good man, Edward.” 

The lieutenant grunts softly around James’ prick, palming awkwardly at his own trousers where he’s knelt down in a heap at James’ feet. This is one of their riskier endeavors to date - crammed into Edward’s sad little cabin on Terror, rather than the relative safety of James’ own ship, and for a suck rather than a frig - but James feels that after the dinner they’ve just endured, the sodden growling and snarling through all five courses of food that hasn’t been properly fresh in months, they need something simple to distract themselves. 

This is simple, in theory: two officers having a lark on a long voyage is obviously frowned upon, but hardly unheard of. This is simple: desperate dripping prick in mouth, supple soaking mouth on prick. Blue wool trousers undone by fumbling hands, the scrape of careless-grown whiskers over heavy bollocks. But if James feels more often than not like the second owner of a maltreated dog, providing the kindness and care  _ (“So good for me, Edward,” “Lord, you’ve a lovely mouth,” “Come for me, Ned,”) _ which its previous master had withheld, when they are in the thick of it? If he feels desperate in return for the praise implicit in Edward’s beatific face and eager alacrity for James’ prick between his lips or in his hand, for the pride of a job well done that comes when Edward melts into insensibility under James’ nipping kisses and strokes of his hair and face and prick? Well, then this semblance of simplicity begins to deteriorate somewhat. 

The first warning of this imminent undoing, James supposes, ought to have been noted when Edward first used his mouth on him: when James huffed out a shocked little “Oh, you  _ are _ good,” and Edward gave out in reply a groan so loud they had to stop entirely for a moment to be certain they would not be burst in upon, and James immediately resolved to continue in that vein. If not at that moment, it should at least have been plain when Edward was fucking into James’ fist and James started to consider whether Edward would be just as receptive to praise while bollocks-deep in James. Laid out for Edward on a real bed, luxuriantly prepared with the finest of oils, would he groan and fuck up harder when James whispered  _ Just like that, I love your cock, You fill me so nicely, Edward, Edward _ ? Would he spill his seed in James just from the sweet clutch of James pulsing tight around him and the sweet words James could pour into his ears?

James lets himself imagine it, as he stares down with dizzy eyes at Edward’s face where it‘s stuffed with his cock and half-lit by the guttering lamp - lets himself picture a shore leave in the Sandwich Islands and an inn with fine feather-beds and thick walls for them to slink off to. He has never been fortunate enough to have a shipboard lark that lasted past port; the sting of those old passions, the limp stuttering confusion of rejection, has always been hard to dismiss from his heart. Now, dangerous as he knows it is, uncertain as he is beginning to feel their future must be, the strength of his longing for something more is winning out as the mercury drops into the realm of isolating gales and chill that permeates the blankets. 

In the hours before he manages to wrestle sleep into submission he begins to think of a warm body beside him, of a face flushed with the sleep one can only find in the equatorial regions, of dark lashes fanned across cheeks and dark brows ironed to carefree laxity by slumber. Of freckles, perhaps; in Greenland, Edward ( _ Lieutenant Little, _ then, a man of little wincing smiles and starry eyes who looked at James with the same timid wonder as he looked at the shining blue bergs and the beautiful briefness of summer) did not grow brown or lobster-red for being up on deck without his cap, as many sailors did, but rather developed a fine dusting of the things about his nose and cheeks. James found them interesting then; now the memory of them is incorrigibly endearing, illogically nostalgic. 

Tonight, he knows, he will fall asleep to this rhythmic haze of longing and wake up feeling wretched. Here, now, he savors what he can. He grips Edward’s hair and dissolves into broken words of love and pours his essence down that gulping throat; he falls on his knees to kiss that lovely mouth; he tucks his hand between those rumpled trouser-flies to return the favor. And he lets himself hope for a change in fortune.

**Author's Note:**

> this fic tricked me into caring about these two so someday i'll write the sequel where they get to fuck in the softest of beds and the warmest of climes and nothing bad happens. the volume of praise kink that they generate together will be visible from space.


End file.
